One Last Hurrah South of the Border

Words by Nathan Myers | Photography by Harry Mark

Six old friends stand knee-deep in the bog working tiny shovels and a flimsy bike ramp to free the truck. They’re tired and angry, but they keep digging because that is how you survive. Never say die. They’d been here before. All around the world. A decade of travel and 20,000 miles of good times gone sideways. It’s always something. And then you get down in the muck and dig. 

Perhaps they’re fortunate to be able to tell this tale at all. Perhaps they’re miserable to have returned to the banality of their workaday lives. I wouldn’t know. I was just the editor for the resulting documentary, Death Rides a Horse – the title an homage to the 1967 Spaghetti Western of the same name – that is slated to be released later this year. I then  sifted through the hours of footage and interviews to make sense of this hurtling ruckus, the result of which is the narrative that follows, an assemblage of how it all played out based on outtakes and the inner turmoil the crew members shared in the final version.

This is the stuff we don’t show you in the movie. This truck doesn’t even exist. The director was never there. The beer, the blood, the near-death flashpoints of glorious stupidity – none of it ever happened. Sucked in the salt and gone forever. 

All things move toward their end. Some just move faster than others.

They gathered at Forrest Minchinton’s desert compound in the Johnson Valley, just outside the Mojave Desert. Late August heat. Cold beer. Old friends. This ragtag patchwork of what-you-got architecture has been the focus of enough films and articles now to garner its own mythology. This unrefined oasis of cornucopious riding options. But this was hardly the beginning of their journey together. That started over a decade ago.

It was 2013 when professional longboarders Harrison Roach and Zye Norris first made a film called North To Noosa together with filmmaker Dustin Humphrey, soon after he bootstrapped the Indonesia branch of Deus Ex Machina. In the movie, Roach and Norris, both from the quiet Eastern Australian hamlet of Noosa Heads, ride vintage motorcycles from Sydney 1,000 miles back to their home, stopping along the way to surf, make friends, camp, and drink beer. 

In the years to follow, Humphrey would orchestrate a whole canon of surf-moto films, each more ambitious than the last. In South To Sian, they traversed nearly the entire Indonesian archipelago on bikes and boards. Then there were other Indo-ventures, like Scramble Gamble, Ain’t We Got Fun, and I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night. The cast was always evolving, but Roach and Norris were fixtures, soon joined by fellow Aussie surf/moto lads Matt Cuddihy and Lewie Dunn. Minchinton, the son of Humphrey’s childhood surfboard shaper, joined the crew a few years back, and quickly became an essential addition. A top-notch rider, the best/only mechanic among them, and an accomplished surfer/shaper, Minchinton was a good man to know in the middle of nowhere. 

As the crew’s ambitions evolved from Southeast Asia to North America, California-based Minchinton’s involvement became increasingly fundamental. He’d raced the Baja 500 twice now, had ridden all over the U.S., and his desert Compound was the ideal basecamp for bugging out, belligerent scheming, and whatever else went down out there. Fireworks and gunfire, partly. Dreams and wheelies. 

While Humphrey is the master of concocting romantic narratives and dreamy cinematography, Minchinton makes sure the bikes actually start. He studies the maps, shapes the boards, and sets the pace on the trail. Nuts and bolts. Meat and potatoes. The hard yards that make a trip like this happen.

They spent a week at The Compound, just catching up, tuning the bikes, and working back into the groove of desert riding. For the most part, these boys were surfers, and this was a surf trip – but the long ride down the Baja coast said different. And that was the Deus way. Adventures inspiring adventures, and friendships fueling the journey.

There were six riders on the trip: Minchinton, Roach, Norris, Cuddihy, Dunn and newcomer Micah Davis. While only 18, the California-raised Davis was a vintage soul with timeless talent on the bike. He fell in easily with the crew, even if their constant reminiscing was lost on him.

There were others, too. Behind-the-scenes guys. The ones you never see in the resulting film, but part of the crew through thick and thin. Humphrey was there, of course, directing operations from his new Tacoma. And veteran moto-photographers Harry Mark and Monti Smith had shared as many journeys with the crew as anyone. Cinematographer Cameron Goold was on his second project with the crew, filming everything on a handheld RED while hanging off the sides of vehicles and backs of trucks. And if the resulting film would have you believe this trip was just six friends hitting the road, do some math during the credits and you’ll see not everything is as it seems.

They film pre-trip interviews. Humphrey keeps asking if they think this will be their final trip together. He’s pushing a narrative. The last ride. The boys weren’t fully buying it. But they also know well enough to trust Humphrey. All life is marketing. “We’re not getting any younger,” Roach tells the camera. “Everyone’s buying houses, getting married, getting jobs. Who knows when the next time we’ll get to do a trip like this is? Maybe never.”

There, he said it. If only to get Humphrey off his case. But the statement follows him like a shadow ever after. It’s time to go.

They load the bikes. Three XR400s – refurbished battleaxes built to endure the desert – and one modern Husqvarna for Minchinton to lead the way. They pack the sag wagon, a 1964 Chevy panel van, owned by photographer Smith. This is how they’ll be able to transport all the surfboards, camping supplies and film gear. They review the maps. The plan is to ride all the way down the length of the Baja Peninsula to hit a remote surf mecca known as Scorpion Bay.

Time to hit the road.

Or at least, to make it look that way. It’s 400 miles to the Mexican border. And riding vintage dirt bikes on the freeway strapped with surfboards is no one’s idea of fun. So, after a few well-documented miles, they load the bikes back onto a trailer and crank the AC down to the San Ysidro border crossing.

For the Chevy, however, this journey is another story.

The first time the Chevy overheated was in the driveway of the Compound, getting ready to leave. It wasn’t even midday and the late August heat was just warming up. 

The boys push-started it into the road, then took off on their bikes to film “hitting the road.” Roach and Dunn were left behind to pilot the support vehicle. Both are solid moto-riders, but they were mainly on this trip for the surf. Roach is one of the most accomplished all-around watermen on the planet, and Dunn is as much a comedian as a surfer/moto-rider, always good times on a trip.

In the planning phase, the Chevy seemed like an aesthetical boon to the trip, giving film viewers a credible explanation for how six surfers with ten surfboards could cross Baja on four motorcycles. 

Meanwhile, Humphrey’s shiny Tacoma would serve as the actual safety net for the trip, which – if you know anything about Baja – is still a sketchy proposition. No one expected the Chevy to survive the journey. 

Sputtering along the freeway, rust would rain down from the ceiling and asphalt could be seen through the floor, while three flavors of fluid left a trail on the road behind. Eight miles per gallon. Fourteen gallons per tank. And a thousand miles of Baja ahead. Maybe that Chevy wasn’t such a great idea, but for all its flaws, riding along inside it tended to inspire the greatest storytelling. Perhaps it was the feeling that you might not survive the trip. 

It took six hours to complete the two-hour drive to the border. They crossed in the 80-degree cool of the night; failing to film that vital story point, they then veered east 100 miles to a ranch near Tecate that Minchinton knew of. While the destination of the trip was much farther south, the real point was to ride, to explore, and to fully experience all the places in between. So much of life is wasted rushing from Point A to Point B, when the real point was all the pointlessness in between. 

At the ranch, they posted up for a few days of trail riding. There’s a slower pace to life south of the border. And this, in Minchinton’s experience, required a period of acclimatization, lest these overzealous gringos rush off and gobble the journey in one sitting. 

Somewhere amidst their meandering trail rides, the crew stumbled upon an abandoned racetrack, fabricated of trash, tires, and abandoned cars. A Mad Max-themed park where any mistake meant mashing flesh with shredded metal, barbed wire, and broken glass. Despite the 110-degree heat, the boys couldn’t stop themselves from proposing an impromptu race. 

It was a sweaty, dirty, dangerous, and ultimately pointless event with no idea who had won (Minchinton won), but what mattered most was that when they reached the finish line, the Chevy was there, with a cooler full of ice-cold beer. Bless that Chevy.

Minchinton studied the maps. He’d raced the Baja 1000 twice now – once as a teenager and more recently with a full film crew in tow – and nearly won the damn thing. Baja was his backyard. His sandbox. And as anyone who knows knows, the more you know, the more you know you know nothing. The sense of discovery just goes deeper and deeper. 

Something on the map was calling to him. North of the border, there are the famous moto dunes of Glamis. Everyone knew that. Among the tallest dunes in North America, fed by winds funneling off the Sea of Cortez. But those same massive dunes also extended south of the border. Minchinton had never heard of anyone riding there. Why not?

It wasn’t exactly in the right direction, but that wasn’t exactly the point. Riding dunes was as close to surfing as a motorcycle can get. These boys were surfers. And this being a surf/moto trip – they set out in the wrong direction once again. Typical.

Approaching the dunes, they stumbled upon the ruins of Las Vegas. Toppled casinos and un-neon signs, half buried in the drifting sands. The decaying props of some zombie apocalypse film shoot, abandoned by some Hollywood production that simply couldn’t be bothered to haul it all home. They shot selfies and shotgunned beers atop the false monuments. Befuddling debris is a staple of the Baja experience. 

Then they mounted the sand and spent the rest of the afternoon surfing empty waves of blistering dunes. It was 112 degrees out, with no shade for 50 miles. The sand was soft. The riders were enthusiastic. It hadn’t occurred to them that they were still in the early days of their journey. Still basically at the border, with a thousand miles of riding ahead of them. Such is the wisdom of youth. They rode the waves in the drifting sands hard, and before long, Cuddihy’s bike was half buried in the dunes, Norris’ was puking oil and smoke, and nearly everyone was nursing some sort of minor boo-boo. 

Roach, disappointed by his team’s dismal performance in the waves, grabbed one of the XRs and brrapped off to crack the lip. He immediately found himself ass-over-teakettle with a mouthful of sand and a gaping wound down the length of his forearm. First-aid kit, that was the thing they’d forgotten. Now they remembered. 

Broken and bleeding, they sat in the dirt complaining about the sundown and worshipping the last of the cold beer. The night was barely cooler than the day, and they were happy to hit the road before the sun had even risen. No, it wasn’t Glamis 2.0. 

Norris’ bike was ruined. A fried clutch and guts full of sand. That it somehow managed the two-hour trek to the nearest town at all was a testament to the old XR400’s unbreakable reputation, spewing white smoke the entire way. 

By pure luck, they managed to find a mechanic with a suitable replacement clutch. He could have the work done in two weeks, he said. The money hit the table. He could have the work done tomorrow. More money on the table. Okay, maybe today.

Minchinton and Norris labored alongside the local grease smith until the job was done. Meanwhile, the others went shopping for knickknacks, which inevitably devolved into tacos and beer. 

Tacos, it should be said, are the real reason for any travels to Mexico. Those greasy, sizzling, health-code violations soothe up all the bumps, bruises, and burns incurred along the way, sticking to your guts like fond memories and sometimes recurring nightmares. Suffice it to say that tacos were the only food item eaten throughout the entire journey, and no one ever suggested otherwise. 

They had a big ride ahead of them. Each stretch of road was a fuzzy math problem, quantifying the distance between gas stations and the number of gallons (and cold beers) the Chevy could carry. This was no place to strand yourself. 

It’s a funny thing to ride side by side with friends for hours on end, never saying a word. Stuffed inside your helmet with just your thoughts and the roar of the bike. Together, but alone. Hurtling along at 80 mph with nothing more than 2 inches of rubber connecting you to the road. Our lives could be ripped away at any moment. Cancer or a car crash, a blown tire or a sudden stroke, poisonous tacos, or deadly snakes – we live every moment in a gossamer web of denial. Death stands right behind us, grinning over our shoulder as we roll the dice. The shackles of god and religion, as our bones disappoint to dust. Here on the bike, side by side with your friends, there’s a sense that it can all be outrun. If only you go fast enough, or far enough.

They made their way south, past the port town of San Felipe (so many tacos), then farther down to the Valley of the Giants, a park and home to the tallest cactus in the world. Here in Valle de los Gigantes, the 300-year-old cacti stand as tall as 60 feet. The group paused to camp and ride among the giant cacti, feeling rested, well-supplied, and on their way. There was a mystical peace amongst these ancient behemoths. Calming smallness. They’d overcome their challenges and had emerged stronger on the other side. Looking once again to the map, they sensed the worst was now behind them. 

The next stretch of road was a tricky one. By Minchinton’s math, it was a few miles out of the Chevy’s maximum range. That fact alone wasn’t enough to stop them, but a few hours south they reached the zone where the new Baja Highway was still just a sketch on a cocktail napkin. Dirt roads. Half-finished bridges. Deathly hallows. And, just to sweeten the pot, the severe and unmarked damage from a recent hurricane had wreaked havoc on the already dicey infrastructure. The road was impassable.

They paused to consider. A detour on the map seemed to circumnavigate the impassable area, but the map was old and the detour itself – just a dotted line, really – offered small consolation. They loaded the Chevy with as much liquid courage as it would hold and pushed on. 

Baja is no place for rash decisions. But it’s also no place for cowards and sobriety. Every rider knows that hesitation is more dangerous than stupidity. 

An hour down the rutted, off-road two-track, the sense of impending doom grew stronger every mile. They’d passed the point of no return. Even if they turned around, the Chevy wouldn’t make it. They paused again to ponder their doom and pound more beer. And just then a fully loaded semi-truck came bumping up the road from the opposite direction. Like a mirage, the driver stopped and climbed down from the cab to address the baffled gringos. “Ándale,” he tells them, glancing nervously at the cameraman filming him. “Just keep going. It’s a little rough, but you’ll get there.”

Funny how a little knowledge can improve the structural integrity of a road. The Toyota shot ahead with the bloodless film crew to verify the truck driver’s intel, while the Chevy and motorcycles bumped along at their best pace. Salvation awaits.

Just outside of town, they reconnected with the truck, racing back toward them with the cinematographer standing on the roof, stripped down to his underwear, a beer in each hand. They were alive. They’d made it. Somewhere. Nowhere. Alive.

They paused for a proper mid-road dance party. Fresh coldies and new hope. The journey was wearing on them now. Screws coming loose. Too much dust and desire. Time to get there. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Refueling on gas and beer, they pushed on into the night, stopping at a dicey motel somewhere along the way for more tacos. By morning, they’d reached the town of San Ignacia, and Minchinton was visibly excited. This town was an oasis, established by French missionaries in the 1700s, with few improvements since then. Despite the vast, barren desert around them, the village here was lush and fertile, with historical missions, handmade tortillas, and giggling señoritas on every corner. 

Minchinton pulled out the map. His map. 

This final stretch of their journey he knew quite well. There were two paths ahead of them. One was quicker and more beautiful, but only suitable for the bikes. Impossible for 1964 Chevys. Minchinton advised that they split ways, filming the bike riding across the northern pass while Roach and Dunn nursed the Chevy around on the paved road to the south. 

The Tacoma would come to support the bikes. But on this subject, Minchinton says he took Humphrey aside and spoke in no uncertain terms. “This is no place to fuck around,” he told him. “You get stuck, there’s no one coming along to rescue us. So, do exactly as I say.” 

This isn’t even in the behind-the-scenes footage. Minchinton conveyed it later, to underline the gravity of that moment. Then he told me to forget about it. It wasn’t important. It never happened. 

It was indeed a beautiful ride, marked by scenic vistas and lush valleys. Crossing rivers, they stopped to swim and cool down, then pushed on into the optical mirror of the salt flats. It was epic biking, provided you steered clear of the treacherous quicksand. Sure enough, first big puddle he sees, Humphrey veers for the splashdown. The Tacoma slurps to a halt. Sunk to the frame.

“That’s it,” Minchinton recalls thinking in that dark moment. “There goes the truck. We’re 100 miles from help. We’re totally fucked.”

Cut to hours of digging. Cut to frustration, exhaustion, and despair. For six straight hours they work the problem, moving the truck inch by inch from the muddled mire and finally returning it to solid soil. Humbled, but still alive.

The sun is setting. The joy is soiled. The once-epic crossing is now a trial of shadows. A dangerous game of “pick paths through the darkness.” Try not to die. It’s hard going, made harder by fatigue and frustration. 

They smelled the ocean first. Then the sounds. Just a roar of darkness somewhere off the west. Black abyss beneath a wallpaper of stars. And somewhere out there, this fabulous point-break righthander of legend. Their pilgrimage was complete.

They struggled to find the rental house in the darkness. And when they did, no Chevy. No good. Even without their six-hour pit stop, the Chevy should have arrived by now. The house wasn’t clean, and not quite as advertised, but they were too exhausted to care and quickly fell asleep.

At dawn, an angry Mexican woman chased them out of the house with a broom. They located their actual rental a block down the street, but still, no Chevy. They should be here by now. But there was nothing to do but tacos and beer. 

The Chevy bumped into the driveway a few hours later, with the boys too rattled to convey their kerfuffle. A wrong turn. A long night. They’d run out of beer, water, and food – and if they’d been out there any longer, gas. They’d spent the last six hours circling an area a few miles from their destination, completely lost. A few more mismanaged miles and they might well have been goners. 

And here they were.

The next two weeks melted through their fingers in a swirl of laughter and tequila. With no TV or internet, Dunn is a one-man, nonstop comedy show. He’s insatiable. Unstoppable. Impressions. His own quiver of weird characters. Stunts. Pranks. Ball-sack. The man is a riot.

The waves are small, but long, glassy, and exquisitely enjoyable on a quiver of 10-foot gliders; long, flat surfboards made to transform the small, peeling waves into liquid roller coasters. They spent their days dancing, with party waves, board swaps, crossovers, and silly joy surfing in the late summer heat. Then long sunsets by the campfire, talking story and remembering all the roads they’d ridden together over the past decade. With a dozen people in their group, they were a party to themselves. Then a women’s surfing team rolled into town, and it was really a party after that. 

The days wore on. Long moto rides at low tide. Lulls between the waves. Their conversations shifted toward what next. Buying a house. Getting a job. Getting married. Making babies. Such real-world specters looming on the horizon of their Baja fantasy. And slowly it was setting in. Maybe this was their last trip together. 

Thoughts of going home. Thoughts of turning back. Checking emails. Almond milk cappuccinos. Comfy couches. Netflix and Grubhub. Chinese food, perhaps. All those things that felt like birds in the cage before. Now alluring. 

On the drive back to the main road, they let the camera crew ride the motorcycles while the riders shuttled the rusty Chevy and the humbled Tacoma. It would not be part of the film, but it was part of the journey. 

No one ever talks about the long ride home. No one films or writes about it. It’s just a necessity. One hectic 30-hour grind. The tacos and beer feel toxic and nostalgic at once. Arriving home feels like they never left at all. Just a dream. Merrily, merrily, merrily...

The film takes three years to edit. No one is quite sure why. It was just a ride. A surf trip. A photo shoot. But perhaps finishing the movie means admitting that Humphrey was right after all. Of all the damn things to go wrong with this trip, it was the last thing anyone had expected.